Splintered
by Aposphobia
Summary: Vegeta is a pirate of the sky and Bulma is his pecunious passpartout to the Legend. That was his plan... until he understood humanity.


Freedom _can _be bought selling your life: book I of his autobiography. Vegetasei smelled foul. Foul like burnt flesh, foul like waterless ponds and unwashed bodies. In his coronation day that reeking planet exploded, leaving no strange stench behind. According to tradition the Prince becomes King when the old regent dies; but as luck would have it the crown was light years away and turned to dust for his claim. Sometimes - _more times than some _in truth - the ghost of his homeland chased Vegeta in his nightmares, seeking revenge; together with its inhabitants. Their voices grew restless in his head, wails of disappointment latched with hatred. _You had it easy_, they admonished. _Whoring yourself out just to live a life of degradation. _They were not wrong in their assumptions.

He kneeled in front of Frieza, picking up the crumbs of the lizard's victories to shape them as his own. Year after year, the prince killed, purged and almost died at the behest of that monster; doing everything under the resented watch of the last survivors of his race. Nappa was too idealistic, believing he could bite the hand that fed him without consequences. Raditz was the son of indolence, a self-trained opportunist that waited for others to take decisions in order not to fall victim of demeaning sanctions. Both of them followed him blindly, looking up to him as the backbone of their deceased race. It was easy to take advantage of them and play along with Frieza's game until it lasted.

Now, this is the same. This is why he chose to stay on this little, pitiful asshole planet they call Earth. Also why he's letting the female earthling talk to him without blowing her head off, she is what Nappa and Raditz were at their time: the best medium to gain what he wants. She seems to have taken an interest in him, as was the case in the past with Frieza. Perhaps a new experiment. The saiyan never missed the way her eyes glittered with curiosity at the barest mention of alien technology, since his arrival. He has, with purpose, let his lips unwind at the right time more than once on the subject to catch her reaction. Subtle, concise, with economy.

"So does the regen tank use stem cells? Look at this," she sketches a quick design on a napkin, marking some areas with bold black streaks. Her lines are quick but straight, her drawings detailed but understandable. "My guess would be that the liquid works just as natural reepithelialization, so it must be a cocktail of different types of blood containing tissue-specific stems that work at inhuman speed. I mean, I patched up Son for ages before the advent of Senzu beans, but even your super immune system wouldn't be so fast- so there are three options: First, my prior assumption. Second, they used technology to create nano-platelets. Third, they squeezed multiple Turritopsis dohrnii in a jar and added some namekians in the mix." She adds, her voice is tinted with sarcasm.

Unamused, he doesn't respond. Instead, he feels like walking around the room, toward the fridge. Without compliments, the prince slams the refrigerator open… digging for frozen raw meat. When he's content with the choice, a brisk step brings the saiyan back to his original spot. He drops the steak on the table without ceremonies eyeing the alien woman as if she were a mere servant. "I'm hungry. Cook this," he demands.

She doesn't even look up, her eyes barely skim on the piece of meat, then, she points at a sideboard. "Pans are in there. Have fun."

Here she goes again. Trying to boss him around with infuriating nonchalance. Vegeta stares cooly at her bent form for a few seconds. If she refuses to cook his meals, she'll also deal with the consequences. He retrieves the meat without protest, and with a deft motion throws it in the air. In his right hand, a ki blast is ready to roast the target.

"You're exactly like Son." She points out.

The meat falls on the floor.

His blood boils while sharply, his gaze shifts to her.

"What?" The question leaves her lips like an innocent protest, unmentioning the unspoken 'aren't you going to set my house on fire anymore?'

He understands her real intentions just a second too late to mend his mistake. The tendons in his jaw tense. She doesn't even deserve a response, so he won't give her one. On the contrary, his palm opens flat to the floor, the circle of energy he had generated before grows in his palm before leaving it.

It chars the meat.

They both observe the carbonized steak for a brief moment. Until their gazes lock.

"If you don't wish to suffer the same fate, you'll watch your mouth from now on."

He got his point across. Her pitiful ki is wobbling like that of a prey cowering in fear. She's struggling to keep a front, which is commendable... but stupid. She can't do anything against him.

The prince turns away, leaving the house. As he walks outside, where the night has ensconced the manicured lawns of this exaggerated place… his stride slows down, until it stops a few feet away from the viewing window that gives into the house. For a short, foolish second, the fleeting thought of turning around and looking over his shoulder takes hold but his body tenses. He doesn't do that and continues walking.

A foreign feeling, alike to dissatisfaction, washes over him.

Vegeta doesn't linger on the thought any further, deciding to discard it and put his mind to better use.

Comparing him to Kakarot…

He needs to train harder.


End file.
